To the Last Man
by xox Moony xox
Summary: After a particularly wearing day, Connor and Becker unexpectedly find comfort in each other, for a little while at least. Warning, contains character death.


**Title: **To the Last Man.

**Pairing: **Connor, Becker, slight Connor/Abby.

**Rating: **PG-13.

**Warnings: **One character death, a dash of angst and just a smidgen of slash (if you squint).  
**Word count:** 1,726.

**Spoilers: **Up to and including 3.05.

**Summary: **After a particularly wearing day, Connor and Becker unexpectedly find comfort in each other, for a little while at least.

**A/N: **Title is stolen from a Torchwood episode name, but I couldn't resist.

**To the Last Man**

At first the sensation, the feeling of complete and utter emptinesswas akin to how Connor had felt on that day, a little over a year ago, when he thought he'd lost Abby to the mer-creatures. Being told to do nothing, to go home and simply sit and wait – right then, he'd wanted to die. He'd felt similar today, until it began to sink in at least, and then he merely wished it had been him instead.

First Stephen, then Cutter, and Jenny… well, Jenny had done the sensible thing and got out, but she was still gone and she wouldn't be coming back. Not now, not ever. Abby was the latest casualty caught in the middle of a ridiculous (probably could have been helped if they'd tried a little harder) accident. Her young life cut short, simply snuffed out. _God_, Abby… he couldn't even think about it without feeling physically sick. She couldn't be gone, she was meant to be there, always; teasing him, baiting him, never quite understanding.

But she _was_ gone and he knew it, too. Lester had actually been quite nice to him since it happened, an action that came as unprecedented proof really. If he was allowed to sit on that pristine leather couch and Sid and Nancy were allowed to run amuck, something pretty shitty had to have happened.

And as kind as everyone was, he still felt like he'd been left there alone. Facing demons with no idea how to kill them, battling on the edge of a precipice, his life hanging in the balance.

Danny and Sarah tried to console him, but they hadn't been there in the beginning when it had all started. They didn't – they _couldn't_ possibly understand how he felt.

How could he be the only one left? It just seemed so, _so_ unlikely. Connor Temple, the last man standing, it was laughable really, wasn't it?

The very same thoughts had been going around and around in his head for the past two hours, and he didn't have a clue how to stop them. Haunting memories and thoughts of how he could have prevented it, threatening to send him spiralling over the edge and quickly out of control.

Fortunately, a sharp rap at the door stopped all of that and Connor lifted his weary head from gloved hands the very moment the shouting began.

'Temple, open the door!' Becker's voice rang out across the flat, clear and true.

At first he wondered what on earth the soldier was doing there, but then realised what with their line of work, it could have been anything, so thought about it no more. Instead he let a breath go slowly, loudly, wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his long-sleeved t-shirt and pushed himself to his feet.

By the time he reached the door (which seemed to take twice as long today), the furious banging had begun again, his colleague obviously losing his patience. Connor flung the door open quickly and Becker, taken by surprise, found himself knocking at thin air for several ridiculous seconds.

Connor took a step back, a tad weirded out due to the fact that for the first time since he'd known him, Becker was standing there in his civvies. No gun in sight either, the soldier's favourite accessory had definitely _not_ accompanied him on this trip. There he was; jeans and a shirt, trainers, unkempt hair and bloodshot eyes. He looked nothing like the man Connor thought he knew, which in turn, both scared and comforted him at the same time.

'Can I come in, then?' It was more of a demand than a question and Becker invited himself in anyway without bothering to get the necessary permission.

Connor hesitated before finally pushing the door closed again and awkwardly folding his arms, turning to watch Becker. 'I told Danny I'd be all right,' he started. 'I'm not a child, I don't need people looking after me twenty-four seven. I want--'

'This has nothing to do with Danny, Connor,' said Becker, his words surprisingly soft.

'No…?' He couldn't help the trepidation in his voice. 'What is it then?'

Connor wasn't graced with a response and instead, Becker walked further into the flat, taking everything in with great interest. His gaze slid easily over the paintings, bookshelves and mirrors, and then settled abruptly on the bar in the centre of the living room. He casually reached out for the decanter sat atop and almost instinctively, Connor felt the need to stop him.

'Don't touch that!'

Becker perked an eyebrow.

'It's just – you probably shouldn't, all right,' his words fell away with a feeble sigh.

The soldier relaxed and let it alone, his arms dropping down to his sides. 'I'm sorry for what happened,' he said then. 'Abby would still be alive if it wasn't for--'

'Don't,' Connor cut him short, swallowing hard, not wanting to hear it. 'I can't – not again. It's not your fault.'

'Lester appointed me to protect you all. If anything happens, it's down to me; it _is _my fault, Connor. Don't try and twist this around on yourself.' Becker sighed heavily, the despair of a man who had the weight of the world resting on his shoulders. 'It could have been avoided and that alone is down to me.'

Connor found himself arguing again, not wanting to hear _anyone _blame themselves for what happened, least of all Becker.

'No!' he said sharply. 'You couldn't have stopped it, no one could. Anomalies are unpredictable, they're – you just never know. No one saw that coming, but I--' he cut himself off, realising he was about to lay the blame on himself once again, something he'd chastised Becker for doing moments before. 'No one's to blame, no one.'

There, he'd said it, now he needed to accept it, too.

'Connor…' The sentence began, but didn't seem to end. His name just hung there in the air, stopping them both in their tracks.

Eventually Becker broke the silence, his footfalls soft as he took several steps closer. 'Come for a drink with me, Connor,' he suggested gently. 'You never know, it might help.'

When he didn't offer anything in response, the other man reached for the decanter again, and this time Connor couldn't find the energy to stop him from doing so. He sank down onto the couch instead, reaching up to loosen the scarf around his neck, eyes falling closed haplessly.

'Fine,' Becker continued, finding out glasses for them both, 'we'll stay here then.' He sat down heavily, pouring their drinks effortlessly, and then handed one over to Connor as he placed the decanter on the floor beside his feet.

This seemed a strange situation to be in. Sat in Lester's oh so perfect flat; drinking whiskey with someone he hadn't even dared to contemplate a drinking buddy before today, not even once. His hands shook as he drank, but the amber liquid warmed his throat. The afterglow of the alcohol helped, comforted him and made him think of something else, if only for five seconds. He should have thought of this before.

Beside him, Becker leant forwards until his arms came to rest comfortably on his knees, the glass of whiskey hanging limply in his hand.

'Do this a lot?' Connor's tone should have been light, playful, yet the words that spilt from his lips were deadly serious.

To be honest, it wouldn't surprise him if Becker _did_. Members of his team, they were always the ones caught in the crossfire. Another man down and Connor never did feel a loss because he didn't really know them. But Becker did and he was the only one of them who would have to face the impact of another life lost (and the prospect that he was possibly to blame).

'Connor, you--' Becker stopped, dropping his head down in defeat. 'How many more do we need to lose?'

There was no need to expand any further, Stephen often used to come out with similar questions. How many lives _would_ be lost before they began to tell people? Surely the more people that knew about it, the more positive difference could be made? Then again, let a bunch of cocky teenagers know that they can step through a window into the past and it was obvious what _could_ happen; mass slaughter, plain and simple.

It would be too easy, _way_ too easy.

'You know, some days I wish I didn't have to do this anymore,' said Connor weakly. 'I wake up and I want to quit. But then I think about all the lives we _have_ saved and that's – it's worth doing, if we can make some sort of difference.'

Becker shook his head, his gaze moving to the ceiling as his clearly thought through what he was going to say next. 'You're taking this way too well,' he almost choked.

Perhaps he needed to though; losing his head would only cause more pain for everyone – for himself. He could grieve later. He _would_ grieve later. But for now, the wound was too fresh in his mind for him to make sense of it.

'Why are you here?' Connor asked suddenly.

Becker's gaze moved quickly to his face and he swallowed, hard, teeth raking over dry lips. 'Weirdly, I wanted to talk to someone about this and you're the first person that came to mind.'

'Oh.' He nodded as though he understood, but he really didn't. Connor couldn't think straight at the best of times, let alone work out the soldier's twisted logic after a day like today. 'OK, that's – yep.'

'Would you rather I leave?'

This question, Connor knew the answer to, and quickly shook his head. 'No, really not at all actually,' he muttered.

They shared a fleeting glance, deep understanding passing between them, and then merely turned back to sitting in silence. Occasionally Becker would reach out to top up their glasses, but then the quiet would settle again and they'd both get lost in their thoughts.

Connor found his mind to be a less scary place with Becker sat beside him. Strange yes, but somehow it made all the sense in the world. He didn't want sympathy or consolation, he wanted someone to understand. Becker did, to some degree at least, and that made all the difference really.


End file.
